


Locked in Orbit

by Curlifox3



Category: Half-Life VR But The AI Is Self Aware
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fast Food, M/M, Not Beta Read, Pining, Weddings, eventually, i made myself sad with this one guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:07:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26223886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curlifox3/pseuds/Curlifox3
Summary: Love is an abstract concept that Bubby doesn't particularly enjoy trying to understand. Whether his feelings for Dr. Coomer are love or not, he defines it in concepts he understands. Bubby orbits Dr. Coomer.He hates how accurate that conceptualization ends up being.
Relationships: Bubby/Dr. Coomer (Half-Life)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 113





	1. The Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Author: I don't need another WIP on my plate right now.  
> This entire fanfic: hey~  
> Author: .... okay, but you're just a one-shot, understand?  
> *several thousand words later*  
> Author: ........ Guess we're breaking this into parts then.

“Hello!” a cheerful voice says.

It takes him a few moments to realize that the voice is speaking to him. He looks down, past the blue-tinted goop he floats in and the glass encasing it all, and spots the apparent speaker.

The man is a scientist, judging by the coat, with a round face and a dark mustache beneath his nose. He’s a bit shorter than the rest of the scientists- who are hovering over the machines behind him, occasionally shooting the shorter man judgmental looks.

“Hello,” the man in the tube answers. That’s the proper response, right? Not that he cares what this new man or the scientists in the room think of him. The man in the tube knows he is smarter than all of them; he is meant to be perfect after all.

The short, round scientist smiles up at him. “I’m Dr. Harold P. Coomer. May I ask your name?”

That’s a curious question. He knows his designated serial number, indicative of the experiment and the number of prototypes that came before him, but he knows that this is not a name- not in the same way that scientists have names. Odd. He should have a name, shouldn’t he? Of course! He’s just as deserving of a name as these idiots, if not more so.

A bubble slowly floats up, oxidizing the thick liquid so he can properly breathe. He likes watching the bubbles sometimes; it keeps him from getting too bored. “Bubbles” doesn’t sound like any name he has ever heard, but it’s a start. All he has to do is adjust the cadence and mimic something like the names he occasionally hears called across the room or through the halls of Black Mesa.

“Mmm… Bubby.” He gives a nod, then more confidently says, “My name is Bubby.”

He thinks the other scientists in the room laugh- and the newly-named Bubby scowls. Dr. Harold P. Coomer only smiles. “I think that’s a perfect name!”

“Of course it is!” he says and folds his arms over the skintight suit they make him wear in the tube. Internally, he notes that Dr. Coomer is at least smart enough to recognize his superior intellect- which easily puts him a peg above the others in the room.

“How are you doing on this fine day?” Dr. Coomer asks.

“I’m stuck in this damn tube. How do you think I’m doing?”

He puts a hand to his chin as if he’s only now realizing the tube exists. Odd. “Why _are_ you in a tube? If you don’t mind me asking.”

One of the scientists glances over her shoulder and says, “We’re just running some basic diagnostics.”

Dr. Coomer turns his head without moving. “It’s very rude to interrupt a private conversation, you know.” Then he looks back at Bubby without missing a beat. “As you were saying, Bubby?”

Bubby wasn’t saying anything, but it’s worth it to see the outright offended look on the woman’s face. It’s enough to make the corner of Bubby’s lips turn up slightly- not a smile by any stretch, but something close to a smirk. “It’s their way of punishing me for being right. All I did was dispose of some worthless reports.”

Another scientist huffs from his seat by a monitor. “A month of Dr. Breen’s research turned to ashes in minutes,” he mutters.

“As I said,” Bubby continues pointedly, “worthless reports that did not deserve the paper they were printed on.”

Dr. Coomer laughs, something warm and rumbling that seems to come right from his belly. “No wonder Wallace was so worked up this morning! If you ask me, the bitch had it coming.” Now that makes Bubby chalk up another point in favor of the short scientist.

Then Dr. Coomer is turning around, and Bubby catches himself frowning. He doesn’t want this conversation to be over yet- which is a silly thought that he chastises himself for having. He’s so much in his own head, that he almost misses Dr. Coomer approaching a large button a few feet from Bubby’s tube.

There’s a small beeping as the light blue slime beings to drain from the tube. The other scientists are making a fuss, but Bubby isn’t really listening. Dr. Coomer is looking past all of them and smiling at Bubby as he floats down to the floor of the tube.

The shitty thing about breathable goop is always the transition. It’s almost like drowning when the tube is filling (logically he knows it can’t kill him, but it’s hard to tell his instincts that). It’s less distressing to cough up the thick liquid in his lungs, even if it leaves him in a bit of a fit on the floor of the tube. It’s disgusting (vulnerable) and he hates it. He hears a hiss as the pressure releases and the glass opens.

Bubby starts to get his feet beneath him when a hand enters his line of sight. Then he looks up and- Green. That’s the first thing in his head as he gets his first unfiltered look at Dr. Harold P. Coomer. His eyes are a shade of green he’s only seen in Botany books. It’s not neon like the slime in other parts of the facility or even the dull, ugly shade that occasionally shows up in the cafeteria food. It’s a beautiful, inviting shade of emerald that’s staring back at Bubby like he’s the most important thing in the room, perhaps even the whole facility (and he is, but that’s beside the point).

“Would you like a hand?”

“I don’t need your help,” he says, even as he takes the offered hand. It’s warm- much warmer than the goop from the tube that still clings to him. Dr. Coomer doesn’t even seem to mind the slimy, thick fluid.

Once he has his feet underneath him, the scientist’s grip shifts slightly into a firm handshake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Bubby.”

“…Likewise, Dr. Coomer,” he mumbles hesitantly. He’s still trying to figure out whatever game this strange scientist is playing. The only things his thoughts can agree on are that Dr. Coomer’s eyes are stupidly (beautifully) green, and that he’s very different than any other scientist Bubby has encountered. 

* * *

Bubby doesn’t enjoy abstract concepts (which is perhaps a bit ironic concerning how abstract a concept like ‘perfection’ is), but he knows their uses. There are some things that cannot easily be quantified and measured with data and charts- at least by no measure that currently exists. Even in the most theoretical aspects of astrophysics, there are experiments and precedents to guide current understanding.

There is no such data, as far he has found within Black Mesa at least, concerning emotions- especially emotions such as love (if that is what this is). There are papers about how prolonged exposure to radiation effects mental state and a few books about creating a suitable workspace environment, but nothing about how to deal with the funny feeling in his chest when Dr. Coomer laughs at something he has said. If the music Dr. Coomer plays occasionally from a worn out looking radio in the breakroom is to be believed- this feeling is love.

Bubby isn’t sure what that means.

Let’s rearrange the problem. How else would he describe his feelings for Dr. Cooomer?

Bubby orbits Dr. Coomer like a moon around a planet. Though Dr. Coomer was more likely to seek him out at first, now Bubby finds himself searching him out just as often. It feels as simple as gravity; if he isn’t working or stuck in his tube, he looks for Coomer in the breakroom by the cybernetics department or in the locker rooms. They linger and chat about everything and nothing in particular- Coomer is upbeat and informative, Bubby complains and brags. They have a routine and it works well.

(Though they never get past the whole Professor/Doctor debate. Coomer says Bubby isn’t technically a doctor because he never went to school, but Bubby figures that as long as he has the knowledge of seven doctorates, he deserves to be called Dr. Bubby. Both of them are too stubborn to relent, so the debate continues.)

He accepts that he’s locked into orbit around Harold, completing revolutions just out of reach of each other. Maybe that’s love; maybe it isn’t. It’s what they do- sometimes quite literally dancing around each other as Harold tries to tug him along to the rhythm of whatever song is playing on the old radio in the breakroom. There are rules against workplace relationships. Even if there weren’t, Bubby’s certain that engaging with a literal experiment would put Harold’s job at risk. If there’s even a chance of losing Harold, Bubby isn’t willing to risk it. He settles into orbit, and it’s (almost) enough.

Then, Dr. Coomer- the stubborn, sentimental fool that he is- suggests something crazy. He wants to sneak Bubby off base. Just for an evening- of course- to be returned before anyone even notices. His hair is starting to gray, but his eyes are still that brilliant shade of emerald as he talks about his plan- and Bubby tries to poke holes in it. It takes a week of back and forth, but eventually they settle on a time, a route, a place- and it’s the most excited Bubby has been in his entire life. For once, he looks forward to closing time when the scientists filter out of the base.

(He tells himself it’s not a ‘date’ that he’s read about in the trashy romance novel he stole from one of the lockers. It’s not. Harold just wants to show him regular food, whatever he means by that. This fact doesn’t stop his heart from beating a little faster at the thought.)

The diner is shiny and obnoxiously bright. The black and white checkered tiles on the floor gleam just as much as the oddly smooth red upholstery on the booth that Dr. Coomer guides them to. An old Jukebox in the corner sputters out an up-beat song about a fever, but then the chorus sings about kisses and burning love and Bubby figures it’s another metaphor thing that he doesn’t care to decipher right now. Even the table that he stares down at is oddly reflective.

“What do you think so far?” Dr. Coomer asks.

“Seems a bit excessive,” he says, tracing a circle in the tabletop. He can see a warped version of his reflection if he looks close enough. “Why do they have records on the walls? I don’t even see a record player.”

“Hm. An excellent question, Professor Bubby!”

“Doctor.”

“Professor!”

Before he can respond, a tired looking waitress approaches their booth. She gives a smile he doesn’t believe for a second as she says, “Hello! What can I get for you gentlemen this evening?”

Bubby settles for staring out the diner window as Harold orders for them both. He’s still expecting some Black Mesa guards to show up and drag him back to his tube, but there’s no such thing outside the large diner window- just a small New Mexico town and the endless desert beyond it.

“-ubby?”

His attention snaps back to Harold. “What?”

“Do you prefer strawberry or chocolate?”

He knows these are names of things- of flavors- but he’s drawing a blank at what they are, much less which one he prefers. “What are you even talking about?” he asks with a frown.

“Chocolate then,” Harold says to the waitress with a nod. She leaves, and he declares with unquestionable confidence, “Everybody loves chocolate!”

“I’m not ‘everybody,’ Dr. Coomer,” he replies. “And I still have no idea what you’re going on about.”

“If I told you, Bubby, then it wouldn’t be a surprise!”

“Fine. Tell me about chocolate.”

Dr. Coomer takes a break, a grin stretching across his face as he recites, “Chocolate is a preparation of roasted and ground cacao seeds that is made in the form of a liquid, paste, or in a block, which may also be used as a flavoring ingredient in other foods. The earliest signs of use are associated with Olmec sites-”

Bubby knows he’s going to be at this for a while, but that’s sort of the point. He could listen to Harold recite from the Black Mesa databases for hours- no matter how mundane the subject. Dr. Coomer’s inflection always makes the information more interesting somehow and it gives Bubby a reason to just listen instead of thinking about what to say. Especially in this new territory, he appreciates it.

“-molded into different shapes (such as eggs, hearts, coins) are traditional on certain Western holidays, including Christmas, Easter, Valentine's Day, and Hanukkah. Chocolate is also used in cold and hot beverages, such as chocolate milk and-”

“Your orders, sirs,” the waitress interrupts. She’s holding a large, circular tray in one arm and quickly begins setting down plates of food. Bubby stares down at the burger and fries for a moment before his attention falls on the tall glass set in front of him. He can see light brown through the glass, but the drink is topped with something white and a small red sphere.

“Thank you!” Dr. Coomer says cheerfully as she leaves.

“Harold.”

“Yes Bubby?”

“Why is my burger leaking?”

“That’s a good thing,” Dr. Coomer assures him. Though after a moment he chuckles and adds, “Though I think my doctor would beg to differ.”

“It’s food,” he states plainly. “Unless it’s poisoned, how can it be bad for you?”

Dr. Coomer just chuckles, as if he’s said something funny. “Just try it!”

Bubby sighs and lifts the burger. They serve burgers and fries every other Friday in the cafeteria, so he knows what sort of thing this is, but it certainly looks different. It’s more like a distant cousin to the burger that he knows; it’s brighter in color, leaking, and has more things packed onto it than the standard Black Mesa Burger.

Then he takes a bite.

The first words out of his mouth once he’s swallowed are “Holy shit.”

Dr. Coomer smiles at him smugly from across the booth. Bubby wolfs down half the burger before the scientist says, “Perhaps you should slow down, Professor. I’d hate for you to get sick.”

“I’m know my limits, Harold,” Bubby says. “And it’s Dr. Bubby!”

Dr. Coomer smiles, even as he starts eating his own food. Bubby does slow down with eating, setting his burger down for a bit as he tries the fries. They are crispier than the ones he’s used to and actually taste like more than just warm potatoes. Bubby drowns them in ketchup and a splash of hot sauce anyway. He stops only to consider the chocolate thing in the glistening glass.

“That’s a chocolate milkshake,” Dr. Coomer offers without prompting. “With whipped cream and a cherry on top.”

There’s a long spoon and a straw sticking out of the glass. He settles for sipping on the thick straw- vaguely wondering why they put something on top of this ‘milkshake’ if he’s just supposed to drink it like soda. The taste on his tongue is milky and sweet and something else that he supposes must be chocolate. It’s not quite better than soda, but it’s still really good. Then he sees Coomer use the spoon to get a mouthful of pink (strawberry?) and whipped cream before taking a bite. So that’s what the spoon his for. Bubby copies the motion. He likes the whipped cream, but not on its own. He eats the cherry without too much thought; it’s sweet and bursts on his tongue, though he isn’t a fan of the stem.

Dr. Coomer chuckles when he says as much, but doesn’t explain.

Half of the food is gone and Bubby’s already starting to feel uncomfortably full. It’s rare he eats more than strictly necessary, but for the first time in forever he actually enjoys what he’s eating. He blames Dr. Coomer, even as he bites into another fry.

“Bubby,” the scientist says, catching his attention. “I’m glad you’re enjoying the meal. On the drive here, I was starting to worry that you actually liked the cafeteria food, you know.”

“It’s serviceable,” he defends lightly. “I will admit, at least this once, that you were right. ‘Regular’ food tastes better.”

Dr. Coomer beams. After a moment, however, he seems to grow hesitant. “I must admit, I do have another reason for dragging you out here tonight.”

Now that makes Bubby pause. His heart suddenly makes itself very known in his chest, but he tries to think rationally. There are number of explanations other than the few at the forefront of his mind. “Well? What is it?”

“May I ask a favor of you?” Harold says, and his emerald eyes look at Bubby expectantly. “It’s very important to me.”

Bubby knows he’ll say yes- whether he asks for a kiss or for Bubby to burn the diner down. He can only bring himself to nod for Dr. Coomer to continue.

“Would you do me the honor of being my best man?”

What.

“What?” Bubby says.

“I think we’ve talked about what a wedding is before, but I may not have mentioned groomsmen and the best man,” Dr. Coomer says, rubbing his chin for a moment. He takes a breath and goes into his article voice as he recites, “The best man is the chief assistant to the groom at a wedding. While the role is older, the earliest surviving written use of the term best man comes from 1782, observing that "best man and best maid" in the Scottish dialect are equivalent to "bride-man and bride-maid" in England. In most modern Anglophone countries, the groom extends this honor to someone who is close to him, generally a close friend or a relative (such as a sibling or-”

Bubby’s only half-processing what he says. He gathers that what Coomer is offering is a position of some honor, but most of his mind is still rattling around the word ‘wedding,’ as if it will mean something else the longer he considers it.

Harold is getting married.

“You’re getting married?” he asks.

“Yes!” Dr. Coomer says happily. “I finally proposed to my dear Annabelle and she said yes! Oh, you’d love her, Bubby. I’ll have to introduce you two!"

“You never mentioned her before,” he mutters, barely keeping his tone level.

“Didn’t I? I suppose it never seemed like the thing you’d care to hear about.” It is, but that’s beside the point. Then Dr. Coomer brings a hand to his faintly flushing cheeks and sighs- a warm, sweet sound. “She’s something else, Bubby.” His gaze is distant, but those eyes shine with affection, with _love_ -

Oh.

Silly Moon. The Earth doesn’t revolve around you.

Dr. Coomer keeps talking- about the wedding plans, Annabelle, how they met, where they’re going for their honeymoon- but Bubby just keeps eating. It’s something to do with his hands, to draw his attention from the shattering thing in his chest. He runs out of milkshake before he realizes how miserable he feels- and not just because of this useless thing called emotions.

“Are you alright, Bubby? You’ve been terribly quiet."

“I’m fine,” he lies. Judging by the concern in Harold’s eyes, he isn’t terribly convincing. He pushes the plate out of the way to fold his arms on the table and rest his head there. It doesn’t help his misery, but it feels right. “I… may have eaten too much.” Which is at least part of the truth.

Harold chuckles at his perceived suffering, and Bubby lifts his head up to give a small glare that he doesn't truly feel. “I did warn you.” After a moment Dr. Coomer chews his lip and adds, “I may have gotten a bit distracted, but I don’t believe you gave me an answer.”

Bubby blinks before he remembers that- oh yes. A question had spawned this entire terrible revelation. He picks himself up enough to look more directly at Harold, who’s staring back at him hopefully.

He should say no.

“I’ll do it.”

It’s almost worth it see Dr. Coomer’s excited grin. “Wonderful!”

Dr. Coomer drives him back to the base and accepts Bubby’s relative silence as a side effect of a full stomach. Bubby presses his face against the cool glass of the car window as he idly stares out at the road ahead and the low, full moon hanging low in the distance.

They stick him in his tube for three days straight, once they learn of his little escapade. He hates it more than ever- to be locked away with only thoughts for company. Dr. Coomer stops by when he can- and Bubby puts on a brave face. If he’s a bit quiet or snappy, he hopes Harold blames it on the tube.

The higher-ups approve of his attendance of the wedding- on the condition that Bubby doesn’t sneak out without requesting permission first. It’s a surprising change of tone, but judging by the annoyed glances leveled at himself and Dr. Coomer, they’re all aware of something Bubby had settled with himself during his time in the tube. Once the both of them put their minds to something, it would happen- everything else (including his own emotions) be damned.


	2. The Earth

The day of the wedding is a busy one. Thankfully, whatever role the Best Man is supposed to play has been adopted by Harold’s other groomsmen- mostly relatives that Bubby has only heard of in passing. Everyone mentions how Harold goes on and on about his co-worker who’s been too busy to attend other wedding-related events (the closest thing to the truth Dr. Coomer can give them without breaking Black Mesa’s Non-Disclosure Agreement.) Bubby insults more than one of them, but it’s not so bad on the whole. He doesn’t like the suit they make him wear, but he knows he looks good in it.

“How do I look?” Harold asks for the twelfth time since they arrived at the alter.

“Fine,” Bubby hisses, “if you’d stop fidgeting with your bowtie.” He steps forward and corrects it, fighting down every voice in his head telling him to step a few inches closer. When he steps back to double-check that everything is in place, Bubby has to stop himself from lingering too long, admiring how Dr. Coomer looks in a suit. Mostly, it’s his smile. The man hasn’t stopped grinning like an idiot since he picked Bubby up from the facility this morning.

Bubby’s never seem him quite this happy. Dr. Coomer deserves to be happy. That’s the only thought strong enough to keep the maelstrom of miserable thoughts in his head under wraps.

The wedding happens. There are joyful tears and promises- none of them his of course.

He lingers against the wall of the reception area. He knows he should enjoy the rare opportunity to consume non-cafeteria food, but he isn’t hungry. There’s alcohol- which he knows better than to consume- and plenty of dancing he doesn’t take part in. There’s a van of Black Mesa guards lurking the parking lot- waiting to take him back to the facility. He has a half a mind to slip out while Dr. Coomer twirls around the dancefloor with his new bride.

He doesn’t- not yet. He likes watching Harold smile too much.

Then a song comes on that he recognizes the beginning of a bit too well- and Harold is approaching him with a gleam in his eyes.

“Care for to dance, Dr. Feelgood?”

“Finally, some good music,” Bubby mutters as he lets himself be led to dance floor. It’s oddly still now- no one else seeming to know how to appreciate a good song apparently. He and Dr. Coomer dance along to the rock tune and it’s almost enough to make him forget where he is for a moment. He swears he hears a camera go off at one point- but he’s too busy smiling back at Harold.

Of course, the song ends eventually.

He and Coomer stand there, staring at each other and smiling. It’s a moment he would preserve in a jar if he could.

Then the bride wraps her arm around Coomer’s with a grin. “I take back what I said about the song, Harold. You two were fantastic- and did you see the look on my Aunt Carol’s face? I hope that made it into the pictures.”

Bubby tries his hardest not to immediately frown at her arrival. It doesn’t help that Coomer absolutely shines as he smiles at her. “Dear, allow me to introduce you to-”

“The infamous Bubby. I’ve heard so much about you!”

“Apparently most of Harold’s friends have,” he mutters with a faint glare at Harold. Really, he shouldn’t risk getting over something like that. Dr. Coomer just shakes his head with a small chuckle.

Annabelle glances between them with an odd, questioning look, before a practiced smile spreads across her face. “Well, I hope you don’t mind if I steal back my _husband_ ,” she says, pointedly stressing the word with a brilliant glee.

She doesn’t mean as a slight against him, he knows, but the word digs into Bubby’s chest like a knife anyway.

“Don’t eat too much this time,” Dr. Coomer teases lightly before he’s pulled off to another corner of the room.

Bubby stands there, lost for a moment, before turning on his heel and making his way to the nearest exit. The guards in the truck don’t even mention seem to care that it’s a bit early to leave the reception. They seem downright grateful to not have to wait for him any longer, and Bubby can’t even bring himself to be pissed about it.

He feels cold.

* * *

A week later, Bubby is tapping away at a computer monitor when Dr. Coomer enters the room. He doesn’t even have to look to know that’s its him. It’s his first day back from his honeymoon and yes, maybe Bubby was counting down the days. Even without his vigil of the calendar, he would know the sound of Dr. Coomer approaching- his steps are heavier than most due the power legs and there’s a certain cadence to them that Bubby has grown familiar with over the years.

“Hello, Bubby!”

“Good morning, Dr. Coomer,” he answers without turning his head. “I’m a bit busy at the moment.”

Dr. Coomer sits at the chair beside him, as if he hasn’t heard him. “I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to you at the reception! I looked for you as Annabelle and I were leaving, you know. Was everything alright?”

“Fine,” he says without looking up.

When he doesn’t say anything else, Dr. Coomer asks, “How have you been this past week? They didn’t put you in the tube too much, did they?”

“No,” Bubby answers flatly. “I’ve just been busy.”

“Well, I had a wonderful week!” Dr. Coomer continues, undeterred. “The beach is lovely this time of year, you know, and I kept telling Annabelle how much you would enjoy the stars at night-”

“Dr. Coomer!” Bubby snaps with a sneer, for once turning his head to meet Harold’s gaze. Those emerald eyes stare back with no small look of hurt and confusion.

(It isn’t the first time Harold’s looked at him like that; Bubby’s miscalculated the weight of his insults before. This is the first time in a long time, though, and one of the few times he has done so on purpose.)

Bubby swallows, calming himself slightly. “Can you leave me alone so I can do my damn job?”

Dr. Coomer stares a moment before he smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course. We’ll talk later then, professor.”

Bubby turns back to his computer without correcting him. Dr. Coomer hovers a moment before Bubby hears the sounds of his steps walking away. Each little tap against the metal floors makes his resolve waver, but he persists in his silence, even as the door closes.

He just needs to hold out until it stops hurting.

Just enough force against gravity to break out of orbit.

(He doesn’t succeed. He goes looking for Dr. Coomer within a week, and they pick up right where they left off- before diners and weddings. It’s the usual talks about work and science, small debates over semantics that don’t really matter, dancing in the break room to music they only know half the words to, and no mention of Annabelle. She’s there- in the handful of “we” and “us” words that have snaked into Dr. Coomer’s life, but neither of them mention it directly. Bubby is grateful for that at least.)

* * *

They both hate the Coomer Clones.

Bubby has a theory they chose Harold for the project out of spite, but he has no proof to this theory. There are more than enough expendable guinea pigs at Black Mesa, but they chose his Dr. Coomer, for some reason. He’d go over the papers himself, but they pointedly keep him away from the project- citing ‘fire hazard.’

Dr. Coomer hates feeling like he isn’t whole- though Bubby doesn’t fully understand what he means by this. Bubby hates the clones for being just close enough to Harold to make him miss him more.

As far as clones go, they are poor imitations. Bubby has never once mistaken a clone for the true Dr. Coomer- and he thinks anyone who does is an idiot. In the first place, they don’t move like Dr. Coomer. They’re all efficiency and directness- something Bubby recognizes in himself. Harold, though, is excessive. He paces, he drums his finger, taps his feet- like there’s an energy in him that needs to get out. Bubby has walked in on Harold shadowboxing as he thought through a particularly difficult problem on more than one occasion.

Secondly, the clones don’t talk like Harold. The voice is there- perfect in tone and form- but the words and the rhythms are all wrong. They speak so simply- straightforward and clear. Harold talks like every word needs to be emphasized and underlined for importance- whether he’s quoting the Wikipedia (their servers are called that now apparently) article about chairs or swearing about the boxing match he’s listening to on the radio.

Finally, and the most personal distinction that Bubby would never tell a soul, is their smell. The clones smell like Bubby- like Black Mesa brand soap, disinfectant, and something metallic that permeates the facility. Harold, though, for all his hours in the labs, smells like the sweat from his morning exercise, the oil he uses to lubricate his extendable arms (also a more recent addition), and sometimes the vaguely musky scent of cologne that does nothing at all to hide the other two components. It’s not a strong scent on the whole, but it’s one Bubby knows how to recognize in an instant- knowledge from a thousand too-close moments that never amounted to anything.

He’s locked in orbit, after all, and the Moon spends a lot of time looking down on the Earth. He knows his Harold- and he knows there’s not a single clone that comes close.

(Damn it if they aren’t a hundred walking, talking reminders of the man though. Bubby can’t even leave the facility to escape them, so he’s stuck- after hours- glaring daggers at all these things that are _not_ his Harold, no matter how much they try to look like him.)

* * *

It’s past lunch, and Bubby hasn’t seen Harold all day. It’s not entirely unusual for them to not catch up with each other until later in the afternoon (work is work after all), but Bubby is feeling impatient- especially with the clones around.

He finds Dr. Coomer in the locker room- and something is wrong. Harold is sitting on one of the benches with his head in his hands, fingers digging through his now white hair. Bubby doesn’t hesitate to approach him.

“Harold?”

Dr. Coomer looks up at him suddenly and- fuck. His eyes are red and puffy, tears streaking down his face. There’s even snot dripping from his nose and messing up his mustache.

“Bubby, I- I’m sorry, I’ll-” he says, quickly wiping his face on the sleeve of his labcoat.

“Harold, that’s not-”

“I’m having a bit of a rough go of it, it seems. No need to worr-”

“Oh my god, Harold, shut the fuck up!” Bubby snaps, pulls his arm away from his face. Harold stares back at him, and Bubby’s heart squeezes in his chest at the sight of those eyes, miserable and tearful. Bubby digs into his labcoat pocket until he pulls out a small handkerchief. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he says calmly.

“Bubby, this is for your glasses,” Harold says, with a faint, actual smile.

“I don’t care. Stop avoiding the question.”

Dr. Coomer accepts the cloth and wipes his face quietly. He looks down at the tiles in the floor as he says, “Annabelle’s divorcing me, Bubby. I knew she hadn’t been happy, but- but I thought-” He chokes on a barely stifled sob, and fresh tears fall down his cheeks.

Bubby doesn’t know what to do. This isn’t a problem he can fix- no matter how much he wants to stop the tears, to make those eyes smile at him. He only does what Harold’s done for him- when everything was too much to cope with. He pulls Harold against his chest and pats his back gently. Harold’s warm and solid against him, but he seems all too small in this moment. “It’s- it’s going to be okay. Let it out.”

Harold P. Coomer crumples in his arms, and sobs bitterly. The sounds that pour from his throat are heart-shattering, but Bubby remains, even as he feels tears start to seep through his shirt. He just keeps rubbing circles into his back- and keeping a pointed vigil on the door.

(Only one person even attempts to enter the locker room- and Bubby sets their labcoat on fire without missing a beat. They leave quickly. Dr. Coomer doesn’t even seem to notice.)

Harold weeps until there’s nothing in him left. Bubby knows the feeling. It isn’t better- merely enough. He lets go of Dr. Coomer, just enough to give him the space to breathe.

“I don’t want to go home,” Dr. Coomer says finally, though his voice is ragged and quiet. “The house feels so empty without her there.”

“Take me with you, then.”

He doesn’t fully realize what he’s said until he’s said it. It seems like the most straightforward solution, even as his mind supplies multiple ways this could go wrong.

Dr. Coomer frowns. “Bubby, they’ll put you in your tube again.”

“I’ll live,” he says, even as his stomach twists at the thought of being trapped for who knows how long. “What’s the worst they can do beyond that?”

“They could fire me?” Dr. Coomer offers like an afterthought.

“Harold, at this point, you’re just as much an experiment as I am.” For emphasis, he flicks the metallic shoulder of the extendo-arms- and fuck that hurt. He shakes his hand, trying to force out the small stinging.

Harold makes a small noise that soon morphs into a low chuckle. His eyes are still red, and his voice isn’t up to its usual cheerfulness- but it’s a start. Dr. Coomer stands and says with a small grin, “Well, what are we waiting for then? Let’s blow this popsicle stand!”

A few threats to the security guards and a mid-day car ride later, Bubby is staring at the living room to Dr. Coomer’s house. Even based on what little he understands of regular living spaces (based on the rare Black Mesa Movie Nights) it looks like shit. More specifically, it looks like something or someone has already picked over the place. There’s dents in the carpet where it looks like a couch used to be and obvious gaps in the handful of bookshelves. There’s even faded spots in the wallpaper where photographs used to be. That’s not to say there isn’t books, furniture, and photographs- but every object seems to denote the absence of another.

No wonder Harold didn’t want to return to this.

“Sorry about the state of things,” he says. Dr. Coomer gives chuckle that doesn’t have any of his usual mirth in it. “I had hoped that your first visit would be under much happier circumstances.”

“Stop apologizing!” Bubby snaps, then scowls at himself for doing it. He’s supposed to be helping- which is why he goes over to one of the bookshelves and starts rearranging the books. They get spread a bit thin, but at least there’s no glaring gaps anymore.

When he glances back at Harold, those green eyes are just staring at him. “Well,” Bubby says, “are you going to help me fix this or are you just going to stand there?”

“Have I ever told you you’re a genius, Professor Bubby?” he says with a small smile.

Bubby huffs, turning away to look for the next task and to hide the small blush in his cheeks. “It’s Dr. Bubby!”

They spend the next few hours rearranging the entire house. A number of photographs featuring Annabelle are boxed away (though Bubby does offer to burn them), furniture is moved (Dr. Coomer needs little help with this), and- once Coomer shows his how to work a duster and a vacuum- the house is slowly and steadily cleaned. From the gym in the basement to the vacant guest room (no bed- apparently Annabelle claimed that for herself), Bubby gets familiar with every corner of the house. He may not have Coomer’s photographic memory, but he doesn’t want to forget this.

It’s dark out by the time everything is finally clean- from the bedsheets to dishes- and rearranged into a way that makes it feel less empty. Dr. Coomer orders pizza for dinner and Bubby is reminded of the superiority of non-Black Mesa food. He still complains about the number of slices (six larger slices would be far superior than the current eight). Dr. Coomer argues for the eight-slice cut (even if there isn’t quite as much passion behind it as usual). It’s a familiar routine that they fall into easily, even in this new situation.

“Bubby?” Dr. Coomer asks at one point. “You didn’t happen to grab anything before we left did you?”

“What would I possible need to grab, Harold?”

“Pajamas?”

“...ah.”

Which is how he ends up borrowing a light-blue striped pajama set of Dr. Coomer’s. It’s equally too baggy and too short. The neck slides down his collarbone at odd angles and he has to pull the drawstring of the pants comically tight to keep them from falling off. At the same time, the pants stop at his calves and the shirt isn’t long enough to reach the top of the pants.

“I look stupid!” he says, looking at himself in the bathroom mirror.

Dr. Coomer calls through the door, “Nonsense, Bubby! I’m sure you look lovely as always!”

He’s grateful that he’s alone as his face goes embarrassingly red. He calms himself as best he can before swinging open the door and stepping into the bedroom.

Bubby quietly hopes he looks ridiculous enough to get a smile- maybe even a genuine laugh- from the other man. It would almost make the embarrassment worth it. Instead, Dr. Coomer stands there (in a pair of dark green pajamas that actually fit him), staring at Bubby’s midriff.

“You don’t have a belly button,” he says.

“A what?” Bubby asks, looking down at the shirt. It seems to have all its buttons.

“The navel (clinically known as the umbilicus, colloquially known as the belly button) is a protruding, flat, or hollowed area on the abdomen at the attachment site of the umbilical cord. All placental mammals-”

“Harold,” Bubby interrupts, “I know what a navel is- you just confused me with the wording.”

Dr. Coomer smiles, and it wrinkles the skin by his eyes. There’s a faint twitch in his hands, but he doesn’t move an inch. Hesitation is not a good look on him. “... Either ask what you’re going to ask or stop staring.”

Now he looks up Bubby, somewhat bashfully, and a hand gestures to the exposed skin. “May I?”

Bubby rolls his eyes, even as he feels the blood rushing to his face. “Go ahead,” he says irritably, as if his heart isn’t doing somersaults between his lungs.

Then Harold actually touches him, and Bubby is endlessly grateful that he’s staring at his stomach and not his face. Of course, he’s been prodded by scientists before, and there’s a bit of that here- in the thorough patterns of exploration. Dr. Coomer’s touch, though, is gentler and more lingering. It’s not quite caressing, but it’s something akin to it, and each brush threatens to send a treacherous shiver up his spine. When Bubby brings himself to look down at Dr. Coomer, those green eyes shine with a warmth that goes beyond simply satisfying curiosity.

(It isn’t love- he knows that that looks like on Dr. Coomer- but it’s some amount of affection and awe that he welcomes greedily.)

The entire ordeal lasts only a minute or two before those hands leave and Dr. Coomer steps away. He smiles as he says, “You never cease to surprise me, Professor Bubby!”

“Dr. Bubby!”

“Professor!” Harold says, and steps into the bathroom.

“Doctor!” Bubby says, even as the door shuts in face. He counts having the last word as a small victory as he turns his attention to the bed.

Though he can sleep in the tube, he does have a bed at Black Mesa. It’s little more than a bunk hanging on the wall of a closet-sized room, but it is a bed- technically.

There is no “technically” as he slips under the covers of Dr. Coomer’s bed. The mattress is soft, the pillows even softer, and the comforter has a pleasant weight to it. He stretches and his feet don’t hang off the end of the bed for once. The lights are still on, but he feels like he could go to sleep like this and not even care.

He’s in the middle of adjusting the pillows a bit when he spots it- a small frame on the bedside table. His first thought is to get rid of it before Harold comes back. Dr. Coomer had shed enough tears as they packed up the photographs. Then Bubby picks up the frame and actually looks at it. He sees himself- a younger version, of course, caught in a comical pose as he dances beside Dr. Coomer. They’re both smiling at each other. There are people in the background, but they are little more than blurs in comparison.

It’s the one truly good moment Bubby recalls from that evening, and Dr. Coomer has it framed by his bedside.

Before he can fully consider this, the bathroom door latch turns. Bubby quickly returns the photo to its spot. If Dr. Coomer notices anything, he doesn’t mention it.

They chat a bit. Dr. Coomer reads from Wikipedia before bed, and Bubby listens idly. He’s observing a routine he isn’t really meant to be a part of in a bed that isn’t his, but it’s nice all the same. Dr. Coomer turns the lights off, eventually, and Bubby sets his glasses on the bedside table. The world is dark and blurry as he rolls over, but Dr. Coomer isn’t facing him. He’s there, certainly, but he’s just out of reach- like always.

Bubby closes his eyes. He’ll sleep better if he doesn’t think about it.

His thoughts are still buzzing when a small voice cuts through the silence.

“Bubby, I’m cold.”

He takes a breath, hating how that pitiful voice makes his chest ache. Crossing the gab between is as easy as obeying gravity. One arm tucks beneath Dr. Coomer’s head and the other wraps around his chest. For a moment, Harold doesn’t move, and Bubby fears he’s done something wrong. He knows his body temperature runs warmer than most, even if he has next to no experience in these sort of things. Then Dr. Coomer shifts a bit, just enough to get comfortable and press a bit further into Bubby’s grasp.

It’s a moment of lunar perigee, where the distance between them isn’t quite as vest. For a fraction of a second, he hopes.

Then he feels Dr. Coomer’s shoulders shake in quiet sobs, and Bubby remembers he isn’t the Sun. He’s just the reflection, doing the best he can in the dead of night.

He holds Harold a bit tighter. Whether he means to comfort himself or Dr. Coomer- maybe even both- he isn’t sure. For better or worse, he’s there until the old scientist cries himself to sleep. Bubby falls asleep the sound of his breathing.

The next morning, they both get a hell of tongue lashing from their superiors. They shove Bubby into his tube and don’t let him out for a week. He doesn’t even care- no matter how the chill of the blue goo seeps into his bones. He remembers pizza, ill-fitting pajamas, and a warm bed. He remembers a place that feels like home, even if it isn’t his.

The Earth keeps turning. Harold slowly recovers from his divorce, and Bubby keeps orbiting.


	3. Pluto-Charon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: death mention.  
> no actual death, just consideration of it.

It should have been a normal day. It should have been a normal test.

Nothing has felt normal all day, if Bubby is honest. It's a hundred small things that- on their own- mean nothing, but accumulate into the feeling that something isn't what it should be. The signs in the breakroom are different somehow. The other scientists- save Dr. Coomer and Tommy- stand around uselessly, staring at nothing in particular. He pulls a gun from his lab coat and doesn't think about where it came from.

Bubby didn’t sign up for this (not that he signed up for anything, really, but that’s beside the point). He just wants to go _home_. He doesn't even bother correcting himself and saying 'Dr. Coomer's house.' He tells himself that everything will be fine- if he can just get out of this whole fucked up situation. He and Dr. Coomer can go home and- well, he'll figure out the rest after.

He tells himself, as he and Benrey whisper about what to do about Gordon, that this is the most logical solution. Give the boot boys what they want so the rest of them can go home. The lives of four over one, he rationalizes (though the thought sounds oddly like the scientists who made him). 

Sitting on the cold metal floor of his tube, Bubby pulls his knees to his chest. “I fucked up,” he mutters, to no one.

Is anyone coming for him? Probably not. Tommy was pretty upset when Bubby last saw him. Benrey peaced out of existence as soon as Gordon lost his arm. Gordon was likely dead by now (or wandering the facility without an arm, which didn’t bode well for his survival.) And Dr. Coomer? He hasn't been himself since the day started. He's not a clone- Bubby would know- but he keeps saying nonsense.

(He tries not to think about the empty look in Harold’s eyes as he mutters, “There’s nothing there.”)

Their little band of survivors calling themselves the Science Team is scattered, and Bubby hates that it's in no small part his fault. What idiot trusts a couple of soldiers over his friends? Wasn't he supposed to be perfect? What a stupidly impossible concept to define, much less create.

He's just Bubby, and he wants to go home.

Of course, what sort of home would it be without Dr. Coomer? Would he forgive him for betraying Gordon?

Was Harold even still alive?

Bubby pushes the thought aside as quickly as it emerges. Dr. Coomer wasn’t the champion of the Black Mesa Underground Boxing Ring for nothing. He was strong and had more than enough enhancements to help him through this hell-hole. Sure, he’d been running into a lot of ropes today and there was a lot more green slime than usual, but that doesn’t mean Harold couldn’t make it out of here.

Dr. Coomer would come for him, and they would go home.

He would.

Right?

A different question then. What does Bubby do if no one arrives?

He dies. The tube isn't functioning like it should (another thing that isn't quite right about today), so there's no breathable liquid to keep him sustained until help arrives. He maybe has a few days before dehydration takes him out- if some alien creature doesn't find him and kill him first. It's simple calculations- a bit theorizing- but the end results are the same.

(At least death isn't abstract. A heart stops. A brain ceases function.)

He would die without ever telling Dr. Coomer-

“Fuck,” he hisses into the tube as he wipes his eyes. He just wanted- no, he _still_ just wants to go home.

Then, there are footsteps and voices. Bubby springs to his feet- and immediately freezes as he sees Tommy, Gordon, and Dr. Coomer. (His _friends_ , his _Harold_.)

It takes a bit of convincing- which is fair- but five bucks and a lot of broken glass later, Bubby is officially part of the Neo Science Team.

* * *

Shortly after, Gordon and Tommy scout ahead for trouble. Bubby takes this opportunity to tug at Dr. Coomer’s arm, slowing him down just enough to drift further out of earshot.

“Is everything alright, Dr. Bubby?”

Bubby scowls; Dr. Coomer would normally never call him 'doctor.' “Nothing about this situation is right, Harold!" He swallows and tries to brace himself, "But that's- that's why I need to talk to you. I thought I might die in that damn tube and I-” Why is his heart so loud? Why does it feel like he can't get enough air in his lungs? “I want to tell you something before someone fucks something else up.”

Dr. Coomer smiles up at, as cheerful as ever despite the circumstances. “Of course! What is it?”

Bubby opens his mouth and- nothing. He can all but taste the words on his tongue, and they drum in his head ( _I love you. I’ve always loved you_ ), but it feels out of reach. He’s spent so long _not_ saying it, that now it sticks in his throat. 

(He could stop now. He could make up an excuse. It’s not too late. After all, bad things happen when a moon collides with a planet.)

 _Fuck the damn metaphor_ , he thinks as he grips the lapels of Dr. Coomer’s lab coat.

It’s not a neat kiss. Bubby almost misses in his haste and narrowly avoids ramming their teeth together. Still, his lips are on Dr. Coomer’s and he hopes it conveys half the things that were buzzing in his skull the moment before. His thoughts are oddly silent now and there is only this moment, this kiss- warm, soft, and so impossibly close.

Seconds pass, and each moment ticks away at his sudden courage.

He pulls away, face red and scowling to hide the fact that he feels like he might combust on the spot. Dr. Coomer’s eyes are slightly wide as he stares back at him.

Bubby nods, still holding his lapels awkwardly. He can't bring his hands to let go just yet. “That- that’s what I wanted to-”

He stops short as metallic arms wrap around his neck and tug him down into another kiss. It’s softer, slower this time, but the intention is clear.

Dr. Coomer loves him back.

It’s a dizzying revelation that has him practically melting against Harold.

(Bubby is certain he can hear a fire roaring to life somewhere behind him and he can't even bring himself to care.)

When he pulls away- reluctantly- Dr. Coomer smiles at him a moment. That smile vanishes as Dr. Coomer's eyes grow darker- a mix of fear and sadness that twists something painful in Bubby's chest.

"If I did something wrong-"

"No!" Dr. Coomer says quickly. "This- this is wonderful, Bubby, but you should kno-" Then his smile snaps back, disconcertingly quickly. “Hello, Gordon!”

Bubby flinches and his head snaps down the hall- but no one is there. There's no sign of Gordon- or Tommy for that matter. When he looks back at Dr. Coomer, the short scientist is still smiling. It doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Harold?”

“We should catch up with the others! Strength in numbers, you know!”

“Harold!" Bubby says more firmly. "What were you about to tell me?”

Dr. Coomer's smile wavers. “Bubby, I-I want to tell you, but I don’t think I can yet.”

Bubby stares at him for a moment before nodding. "Okay." He steps back, but soon entwines their fingers. It's an unnecessary thing, but it feels right. “We’ll talk when we get home.”

Harold's smile eases into something warm and genuine, but his eyes- those brilliant eyes- hold a pity that Bubby doesn’t understand.

* * *

Somehow- _somehow_ \- they escape Black Mesa and Xen. They attend Tommy’s impromptu party at Chuck E. Cheese. There’s dancing, pizza, Tekken, and a handful of gunshots/explosions. In short, it's the perfect party, Bubby decides.

(He doesn’t remember how they got to the Chuck E. Cheese, but you know what? It’s been a long day and they just defeated an eldritch (?) security guard and a skeleton army using passports, forbidden science, and portals. He can suspend his disbelief about a little teleportation.)

When he walks into Dr. Coomer’s house, he does so with a strange sense of déjà vu. It is and isn’t like he remembers. It’s full- he realizes, staring at the couch he doesn’t recognize. There’s a poster for a boxing match on one wall and an old record player in one corner of the room. There’s a lived-in look to the space that makes him feel out of place.

Then Dr. Coomer squeezes his hand- a bit too tight, honestly, but he’ll blame it on the metal arms- and Bubby releases a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

They’re home.

(There's a set of pajamas waiting by the sink for Bubby when he finishes his shower. It actually fits him this time, and he wonders how long the soft clothes have been here, waiting for him.)

Dr. Coomer grows oddly quiet as they crawl into bed. Harold doesn’t turn off the lamp by his bedside or reach for Wikipedia, simply snakes his arms around Bubby’s middle and pulls him close. He holds him like Bubby will vanish if he doesn’t. (And really, whoever thought metal arms were cold has never hugged Dr. Coomer- or dealt with functioning machinery for that matter.) Bubby runs an assuring hand through his hair.

“I don’t want to go to sleep,” Dr. Coomer admits. His voice drops, low and ominous, as he says, “I don’t know if we'll wake up.”

“Of course we will!” Bubby says sharply as he looks down at him. “Why wouldn’t we?”

Green eyes don’t meet his gaze, but those arms wrap around him a little tighter. “Bubby, what would you say if told you this wasn’t real?”

He wants to laugh- to dismiss the thought- but Harold sounds… serious. Scared. Bubby doesn’t understand, but he wants to. “Then... this is the best dream I've ever had,” he offers. After a moment adds, "It might also be the most fucked up one too."

Dr. Coomer chuckles at that. Bubby can feel the vibrations in his own chest, and he smiles. After a moment, Harold says, “Bubby, you know something that occurred to me when we released you from that infernal tube?” He doesn’t have a moment to answer before Dr. Coomer continues, “You never gave yourself a last name. Why is that?”

Bubby stares a moment. Some part of him is considering the question, but most of him is memorizing the way Harold looks like this- cuddled beside him, cast in the shadows from the lamp. “I suppose it didn’t seem necessary.”

A metal hand presses against his cheek, and Harold’s brilliant lock with his own. “If you don’t mind having a last name, would you consider taking mine?”

“Harold, that’s silly. What would the others call you then?” Then his brain catches up to what is actually being asked, and his eyes blow wide. “Wait, is this a proposal?”

“Yes!” Dr. Coomer says cheerfully. “I’ve been wanting to use that line for the longest- but perhaps I should have been a bit clearer, given the circumstances.” He leans a bit closer. “Would you care to marry me, Dr. Bubby?”

“Professor,” Bubby says before he can stop himself. “Wait- shit I mean-” He groans and covers his face with his hand. “I fucked it up.”

Dr. Coomer just laughs, even as he slowly pulls Bubby’s hand away. There’s unabashed affection in his eyes, even if it’s tempered by something else Bubby can’t name at the moment. “You’re perfect to me, Bubby dear.”

It's abstract, and foolish, and- _Bubby dear_. He swallows, trying to calm himself before he sets something on fire. “Yes,” he says after a moment, face burning as he smiles. “Of course I want to marry you, you imposs-”

Bubby can feel Harold’s smile even as the shorter scientist kisses him.

“I love you,” Dr. Coomer says when they part, and it almost sounds like a farewell.

“I love you too,” he answers as firmly as he can. It’s all too simple a phrase to describe everything he’s feeling, but it’s enough. It's enough because it has to be.

Dr. Coomer turns off the lamp, Bubby sets his glasses on the bedside table, and they settle back into each other’s arms. He isn’t sure what Dr. Coomer thinks about as he drifts off, but what Bubby tumbles through his mind is the thought that he’s marrying Harold P. Coomer. When he actually considers that his name would be Bubby Coomer, he repeats it in his mind like a mantra. It sounds nice, but it does very little towards helping him fall asleep.

He thinks about moons instead. He traces them all, from Earth’s lone moon to the gas giants’ massive collections (Bubby is partial to the volcanic Io of Jupiter). He’s almost asleep by the time he reaches Pluto-Charon. They’re the only double-planetary system in the Solar System. Charon is smaller- still a satellite of Pluto- but they are tidally locked, ever facing one another as they orbit.

Bubby thinks he wouldn’t mind orbiting like that.

(He sleeps. There are no dreams, just a darkness that seems to stretch for some unknowable amount of time.)

When he wakes up, he isn’t sure how long it’s been. It certainly feels like longer than seven hours, no matter what the clock on the wall tells him. Dr. Coomer isn’t there, which sends just enough panic through Bubby to get him out of bed and quickly wandering through their house. ( _T_ _heir house_ , his mind repeats gleefully. _Their home_.) His panic subsides as he sees Dr. Coomer, standing over the stove and making what looks like eggs and bacon. It smells amazing, but that’s hardly what Bubby notices as Harold turns to smile at him.

His eyes- those beautiful emerald eyes that haven’t dimmed since the day they met, no matter the wrinkles that surround them from- shine with love. It’s an abstract thing that Bubby wouldn’t fully know how to describe if you asked him. In this moment, however, it feels like something finally settling into its proper course- like a puzzle piece falling into place, an equation resolving its variables, or a satellite locking into orbit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this angsty Boomer supposed-to-be-a-oneshot fic. I just wanted to play around with these two. I feel like I probably went a bit OOC at times, but I still hope you enjoyed it all the same!
> 
> Kudos and Comments are always appreciated!


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